Casper Breathes
by WindStar
Summary: The first year wasn't that bad. He couldn't say that he didn't run into any altercations, but at the same time things weren't exactly what he'd expected. The only problem was, he was slowly forgetting how to breathe...and he needed to relearn how.


**Windstar: **This is my first attempt at a White Collar fanfiction. I'm hoping that I do a good job. This story line jumps around a lot, but the basic flow stays the same. There are some mentions of child abuse and other things can be alluded to at your own discretion. I'd really appreciate the feedback, and am looking forward to seeing how I make out in this fandom as a one-timer.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own, nor do I claim any profit from White Collar.

**Casper Breathes:**

The first year wasn't that bad. He couldn't say that he didn't run into any altercations, but at the same time things weren't exactly what he'd expected. Someone had the foresight to give him a cell by himself, something he believed to be the work of Agent Burke.

He kept his head down. He didn't get involved too much with the problems of the others. He made friends where he could, and he sweet talked his way through multiple problems. That didn't stop the black eye or the decidedly broken arm that he'd gotten on his first month.

Still, when asked how it happened after he woke up in the med bay he didn't snitch and that made he had at least some higher status then the ones who turned tail the first sign of trouble. A few people were pretty good about the whole thing, and he was used to the fact that there was a way and order of things.

When asked what he had done to get in, he said it simply. Bond forgery. _Your an artist? _Yeah. _How good?_ What do you want done? The second month was all about people wanting him for something. He didn't mind making things for the other inmates. It gave him a status that made sure at least his hands weren't touched. His eyes were rarely bothered too. He couldn't do his 'drawing thing' if he couldn't see.

So when some of the rougher convicts decided enough was enough and he got caught in the cross fire – it wasn't that bad. He was still trying to convince that to Kate though. After she saw the bruises and the broken arm she was in a tizzy. Her worried eyes were always looking for some sign of trouble, and she'd asked him time and again if he wanted to get out.

Time and again he told her that he needed to do this so they could be left alone. What was four years if it meant that they wouldn't have to worry about anything else anymore? They'd already agreed that the last job was just that: the last job. Ironic how that meant that he ended up in jail and it was all because he'd been in too much shock to do much of anything else.

The job itself had started off strange. He'd gone in as Nick Halden – one of his not so wonderful and yet just perfect enough aliases that he was strangely fond of – and had no problem building a report with the others. There was one man there in particular, a Morgan Freeman look alike that always seemed to be watching everyone and everything.

It was that man in particular that took his breath away. Because he recognized the man. It had happened when he was much younger. His mother wanted him to go and drop something off for her in Central Park. There was a friend there that would make the exchange. He'd only been twelve, but he did what she asked without too much complaining.

At ten-forty five, he took the two train until ninety-sixth street and then made his way into the park from there. He went to the meet up, and was prepared to make the exchange when her so called friends decided that they were more then a little irritated she didn't show up herself. He paid for it in blood. He never even had chance to tell them that he had whatever they wanted. They assumed he'd just been sent in her place and that was that.

He remembered falling, and he was almost certain they thought he was dead because he just lay there with his eyes closed and stopped breathing until they were gone. He stayed there, hurting and tired and more then willing to go to sleep. His best friend, Memphis, was probably panicking as he usually did whenever he didn't come back at reasonable times.

And that's when it happened. "Oh! Byron!" He vaguely was aware of someone touching his face and neck. They felt along his spine until suddenly he was being picked up. The woman's voice was quick and frantic, and he wondered faintly just how badly he looked.

He remembered a car door opening and being passed into the arms of a woman that smelled lightly of patchouli and...cinnamon? He turned his face from her jacket despite the warmth, determined to not get blood on her jacket as much as he could. It was soft...fur? But a hand pulled him back, and held him closer.

He couldn't recall a time he'd felt more safe. He woke up in the hospital, the woman introduced herself as June and her husband was Byron. For some reason, the man seem deeply agitated. Convinced it was his fault, he shied away from him and did his best to keep his head down to avoid eye contact with him.

They told him that he had three broken ribs and that his right arm was broken from the fall. He just shrugged and thanked them. In his head he was trying to figure out how to pay for the hospital bill. He had no money. He was basically starving as it was, he couldn't afford a hospital. He told them as much.

Byron looked even more put out then before, and quickly left the room. His features were dark and he looked prepared to have a violent altercation he was so enraged. The movement made him flinch slightly, and June patted his hand.

"That's not directed at you." She assured gently. "One of our boys came home once looking like this...you're so young, we were worried for you. Couldn't imagine if someone hadn't found you." She was smiling at him, and he relaxed under the careful tone. "Do you have any family we can contact?" The words were properly constructed. In truth, it was a simple question, but depending on how he answered his life would be forever changed.

"No one would notice if I didn't come back." She nodded, and ran her fingers through his hair.

"Would you like to come home with us?" That gave him pause for thought. He didn't even know these people. Why on earth would they want a little boy in their house? That didn't make any sense at all.

"Why?" He asked her slowly, for the first time finding suspicion with her. She looked at him for a long while before leaning close.

"Because our youngest baby just left home and we miss the sound of laughter in the house. It's too big a house to not have a child in it."

"What do you want me to do?" Life at home couldn't possibly get any worse, but he still wanted to be sure.

"Oh, go to school, invite friends over – eat food."

"How do I know you're not one of _those _types of people?" He asked awkwardly, fingering the cast around his arm awkwardly. She looked sad all of a sudden. She moved closer, sat on his bed, and pulled him into a gentle hug.

"Oh baby, no one's going to hurt you. No one's going to hurt you with us. I promise. I promise on my life." And he believed her.

He didn't know how the paperwork got filled out, but somehow they'd become his legal guardian while he stayed in the hospital for observation. Something about him being homeless and them fostering him. He didn't pay much mind to the paperwork, but he did get to know Byron a bit better. He truly hadn't been mad at him.

The man was just as friendly as his wife, and just as susceptible to anything that she said. She was wonderfully quick on her feet, and he was always running to do whatever pleased her. Smiles and charm was everywhere, and they seemed to genuinely care about his well being.

Guiltily, he forgot about Memphis and he ignored his mother and absentee father. He was frustrated and mad and he was hurting. In his mind he'd been sold out to those thugs and it hurt. It really did. He tried to not let it show, but it was hard to do the more that June and Byron were there. It was hard to do when they were hugging and smiling and always there so he was never alone.

On one hand, he resented the fact that they didn't think he could be by himself; on the other hand he couldn't imagine if he was alone. Somehow he'd developed an unshakable dependency to their contact. He did whatever they asked of him and they never begrudged his presence.

His room was a guest room that had a balcony view of New York City. It was bigger then his old apartment. Just that one room was bigger then anything he'd ever been in before. It made him uncomfortable. He wasn't sure he was going to be okay with it. It was Byron who constructed an enclosing feature around the bed – dressers and desks positioned so that the room looked less daunting when he was on the mattress.

Byron was a silver tongued devil. He was the one who taught him how to play cards. But it was him who showed Byron a few sleight of hand tricks he'd picked up on the streets. Because if there was one thing that he was, it was most certainly street smart. He may not look it – but he did understand how to get by on his own. He had to, that was how he lived his life. That was how he survived.

It was two months before he really thought of his old life. His cast had come off, and he was sitting on the counter after he'd slipped outside and cut his knee open. June was dabbing it with peroxide when there were shouts in the hall. She turned around, concern on her face. He flinched awkwardly away – a bad habit he'd fallen into after that night.

Byron was shouting at someone who'd come in with him, and they could just over hear what he was talking about. Something about money and where it had come from, and punks in the park. He wasn't a dumb kid though, and the pieces fit together before it had for June. He flew off the counter and ran into the hall, staring at the two combatants in awe.

"You're trying to find who hurt me?" He asked, and both men turned to look at him.

"Yes." He pulled a package from his jacket and he recognized it instantly as the same one his mother had given him. "You know what's in here?" He shook his head. "Two-hundred thousand dollars." His blood ran cold.

"We don't have two-hundred thousand dollars." He said more out of instinct than anything else. "We didn't have money at all! That's not possible!" He felt a cold shot of betrayal shoot through him.

"Jaimie," because that's what his name was back then – Jaimie Daniels, "Come here." He shook his head. He shook his head and he backed away. Byron just moved closer. He backed away until he'd crumbled at the wall, and Byron crouched before him and held him to his chest. "I'm going to find out what happened...but no matter what, you're safe here. This is your home now. No matter what."

That was the last time that he saw Byron discussing work with someone. Every time they were together now, it was specifically about things that didn't include his past life. That was fine for him, he didn't want to think of his past. He was so tired of his past.

They took him to museums and to operas. He fell in love with it all. He couldn't imagine anything that didn't have to do with this life. He loved them both dearly, and he wanted to stay with them forever. No matter what.

When they realized he could draw, they encouraged him with wide eyed enthusiasm. Everyday was filled with paint. He'd sketch and canvass and charcoal and was always smelling of art. June would laugh when she saw him covered in yellows and blues, and would send him off to bathe before he showcased.

Byron was the one who taught him how to look at a painting close enough to get all the details. Byron was the one who encouraged him to recreate the pieces that he'd fallen in love with in the museums. He encouraged that eidetic memory he had. He loved it all.

Then one night, it all changed. Six months after he first started living there, a thief broke into their house and killed the maid. The gunshot woke him up and he looked around him in terror for a moment before slowly starting to make his way towards his door. It was thrown open, and he leaped back as June rushed in. Her arms wrapped around him quickly and started to lead him towards the balcony. The whole while he asked where Byron was. She couldn't say anything to him though, she too was terrified for her husband's life.

There were hurried footsteps and then shouting. They sat crouched on the balcony, him enveloped in her arms as they both prayed and hoped that it would all be okay. More shots filled the house, and he couldn't just wait. He pushed out of June's arms and ran towards the door. He needed to find Byron. He had to find him!

He rounded the corner just as the thief aimed it at his foster father. Without a single care in the world, he ran forward and tackled the man. Byron was shouting, telling him to leave, but he didn't listen. He wanted to save someone. He wanted to help someone! He needed to!

The man had an accomplice though, and just as he had pulled the gun away from the thief, the other man appeared. That shot echoed through the whole house and into his ears for years to come. Byron fell to the floor motionless. June was screaming, she'd followed him down. Suddenly she was deathly silent as well.

The thieves grabbed a few things quickly and then hurried out the door. They didn't bother with him. He was entirely subdued and leaning over his foster parents in horror. Convinced they were dead, he realized that some things were just too good to stay forever. So he did the only thing he could do: he left.

He went to Memphis' house, because that was really the only other place he could think of being. Appearing in his designer clothes and drenched in blood, Memphis handled it very well considering he'd assumed that he was dead. He led him inside the apartment and helped him wash off in the dirty water that would have infected his wounds if he'd had any but was perfectly acceptable for removing the blood that wasn't his.

His friend listened to him through everything, and nodded at just the right parts, and in the end he gave him clothes that weren't designer made but still would dress him. Memphis was surprisingly not very concerned with the fact that he hadn't spoken to him in months. In truth: he was glad that he had managed for at least a little while escaped the life they'd been born into.

"I'm not staying on the streets forever." He stated at long last. "I'm not going to do this-" He motioned around him. "Anymore."

"Okay." And that was that. Three years later they'd left the streets and they left school and so-called family behind. They set their aims to much bigger things. Memphis changed his name to Moz, Jaimie Daniels changed his name to Neal.

Moz didn't want to be tied down by a last name, but when asked: his name was Dante Haversham. That was the name of the man who had open his doors to them when they first started out and were homeless. The shelter asked no questions and didn't focus on their fake IDs long enough to realize that they weren't really eighteen. It was the start of breaking the system that made things right for them.

"Why didn't you take _their_ last name?" Memphis asked him once, and he told him simply:

"I don't want to remember that I killed them."

"You didn't-"

"I did." The case was closed.

Thirteen years after the shooting in the mansion, he'd become a world-class art thief, met the woman of his dreams, had a blinding fear of guns, and he entered the warehouse he would meet his clients in, and would be staring at a man he was certain was dead. After all of these years, and after everything that had happened: he looked astoundingly different then he had as a child. Byron didn't recognize him, and perhaps it would have been better if it was left like that, but he couldn't leave it like that. He needed to tell him, to ask what had happened after he'd left.

So when the meeting was over, and everyone was heading their separate ways, he tried to work up the courage to talk to him. Moz and Kate told him that they needed to get going, but he just waved him off and forced his feet to make the trek across the space until he was standing right in front of Byron.

"What do you want Caffrey?" He asked, seeming almost a little put out.

"When I was twelve, I was beaten up by some thugs in central park after my mom sent me to drop off a package filled with stolen money she'd taken from them. A man and a woman found me, took me to the hospital, and basically adopted me. Half a year later they were shot and I left." Moz was hovering in the background, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly has he listened in. Byron was staring at the young man in front of him as though he'd grown a second head. "Is...is June...?"

"Dear God, _Jaimie_?" His hand reached out and touched his face. It had been a very long time since they'd last seen each other. A very long time.

"Yeah...hi Byron..." He shifted awkwardly. He glanced back towards Kate and Moz who were looking at the scene in growing apprehension. The man suddenly put his arms around him though, holding him close to his chest.

"Damn boy, we've been worried about you."

"June-"

"She's fine. Just was rattled a bit. Come home and see." He was frozen in the man's arms. Rarely was he alright with physical contact. It wasn't that he couldn't (or didn't) use his body multiple times when he was working a con, but outside of that, when the squishy underside of his soul was bared – he didn't particularly enjoy having someone touch him. This was different though, and he managed to relax a great deal faster then he normally would have been able to do so in the past.

"I can't." He sighed slightly, resting his head on the man's shoulder. He didn't hug him back, but one hand did take hold of Byron's jacket. The man had impeccable taste of clothes. "Not until this is over. Last job...got money and Kate, so I don't have to worry about anything anymore." The man let him go and gave him a once over.

"What have you been doing for the past thirteen years?" He looked back at his cohorts, and motioned them over. They came slowly, nature dictating that they trust no one.

"This is my girlfriend Kate, we've been going together for a few years now. We have an apartment just on the other side of-"

"_Neal_." She hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously. She wasn't pleased.

"Byron took care of me when I was a kid, I hardly think it matters that he knows we're together." He met Byron's eyes, and Moz rolled his own.

"Oh, nice, why don't we just tell him where your secret stash is while we're at it? I know, we could be having this discussion in _prison _too!"

"Stop being a hypochondriac, it's fine." He shot back. "This is my friend I told you about back then – Memphis? Moz now." Neither Kate nor Mozzie were particular thrilled with having their identities turned over so carelessly, but they both trusted him too much to argue that badly.

"I've heard much about _you_, a pleasure." Byron held out a hand, the pair looking at it dis-trustingly. They weren't certain that this was such a good idea at all. Their friend was glaring at them though, until they grudgingly complied. He didn't usually ask for much, in fact he let them get away with murder more times then not, and so if he was asking: it was important.

They talked for hours, eventually settling into a bar and laughing and having a good time. Byron was impressed with how well he'd done for himself, and he glowed under the praise. He was soaking up the attention like water to a neglected plant, and for a moment they were all intensely pleased and at ease with life. Even Moz and Kate calmed down a bit. Though Memphis made an excuse and quickly fled back to his storage unit for the night when they started getting a bit tipsy.

That was until one Agent Peter Burke appeared and flashed his badge. Byron's face shut down, and his eyes turned towards him with a silent accusation. He was hardly appearing concerned or even worried. His eyes were alight with one who was enjoying a particularly good con – he knew that look very well after all.

"New friends Caffrey?"

"What can I say? You meet new people every day. Want to join us for a drink Peter?" He asked cheerfully, grinning the whole while.

"I'm not here to chat -"

"Of course not, you're here to blame me for something I haven't even done. So now that you have my take – I didn't do it – and I have yours – you can't hold me because you have no proof – let's have a drink hey?" He motioned for the bartender to come over, and Byron burst into a gleaming smile. The kid was good.

"Listen Caffrey, you're sticking your neck out too far on this one. Getting involved with Moretti? Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Blue eyes shifted to look at the FBI agent a bit more closely.

"Moretti? Why would I get involved with him? Organized Crime's not really my thing." It was an honest statement all the way around no matter how someone looked at it. There was a completely innocent expression that had crossed his features.

"Peter?" The man looked back to where Kate had walked up after having excused herself to the bathroom.

"Will if it isn't all the usual suspects. Together again huh?" Her eyes rolled.

"Way to be melodramatic. You knew we were together before you came into the bar." Her arm settled around her boyfriend's shoulder, his slipped around her waist. "I told you if you kept sending pizza to that surveillance van they were going to gain weight, hon." She said disapprovingly to him, looking at him with such a parental tone in her voice. He sighed dramatically.

"I suppose. What'll it be next time Peter? Salad? You like the standard Italian right?"

"This isn't a game Caffrey, and it's Agent Burke to you."

"I have a right to call my own personal stalker by his first name. You can call me by mine too if you want." He was giving him a winning smile, Burke didn't buy it for a second.

"Moretti's dangerous. This isn't like your past scams and cons."

"Alleged scams and cons, you've never found anything on me." He corrected easily, a small jibe in there because he could.

"_Alleged _scams and cons." Peter allowed. "You keep this up, one day someone's going to get hurt." He patted the kid's shoulder and made to walk past when he caught his wrist.

"You can take the bug back, its just going to get crushed when you have your back turned anyway. Why waste the tax payer's dollar?" He asked sweetly, handing the bug that Burke had tried to pass to him. The Agent just laughed.

"One of these days Caffrey, you are going to jail."

"See you then!" He waved the Agent away, and then sighed ever so slightly. His face looked grim all of a sudden, his teeth worrying his thumb in his mouth – biting his nail subconsciously.

"You alright?" Byron asked softly. The kid nodded back to him, and looked at Kate.

"Time to go." She nodded and said a quick goodbye to Byron. "Sorry, he's been after me for three years. Don't know why, never had a reason to be under the FBI's inspection." The smile on his face was saying the opposite. "This whole place is probably bugged by now, so's my apartment. We've got to head back and keep appearances up. See you tomorrow."

That was how it was. They'd work as an indestructible pair, he created the bonds seamlessly- passing any inspection that Moz gave them. To the average bank teller, they were perfect. Only to the trained eye would the fake bonds be discovered. Byron used his brains and his intuition to figure out how to get the job done quick and painless.

They finished up in less then a week. The exchange was going to take place soon, and then everything was going to fit together perfectly. He could finally head back with Byron to see June, and this life would finally be over. There would be no need to have to worry about anything. He could live off his money forever, he had a family and a home that he could go back to. Everything was looking up for the first time in years.

That was of course, until their deal was cut short when Moretti got involved. Burke was right, as always. He hadn't thought that he needed to worry about Moretti because that was never in the picture, but he'd been flipped and now there were five guns pointing at him and Byron and he really was truly sick and tired of this situation.

"If you want the bonds, take them." He told them, not caring about them nearly as much as keeping his former foster father safe. He wanted to go home again. He wanted to see June.

"I've heard you do seamless works Caffrey." He never should have used his real name, and he grimaced slightly as Moretti walked closer.

"You want me to do a job for you?" He glanced warily at Byron. Kate and Moz were waiting for him back at the hotel. This was just a drop. They didn't need to be there for this. The three of them were never together for such things. It was dangerous.

"Oh no, not at all...I want you to do _many_ jobs for me." He took a look at the guns, biting his lip. This was bad. This was very bad. "You can either come with me now, and live a relatively good life...or we can do this the hard way, and you'll spend the rest of your existence in a cage." Moretti moved closer, and he did the only thing he could think of doing.

"Okay." Why not? He knew that he'd be given a short leash for a while, but there would be an opening soon, and he could disappear whenever he wanted to.

"No!" Byron shot forwards, and gunfire exploded everywhere. He felt something go through him. Then there were cars and lights, and screaming, his world spun around him. He heard someone screaming his name, and then he faded into darkness.

He woke up in the hospital. His eyes stared up at the ceiling. He was handcuffed to the bed. He looked around and found Burke sitting next to him. He sighed slightly and tipped his head in defeat. He knew he'd been caught. Hard to make a get away when you're caught between the mob's guns and the FBI's.

"Your friend from the bar's dead." Peter told him coldly. He didn't particularly care at the moment that Burke was there, he didn't care that at that exact moment, he'd been told that so that they would see what he was thinning.

Tears choked in his eyes and his throat constricted painfully around vocal chords that stretched and pulled violently. He had images of Byron laughing and encouraging him. Of being in this hospital and being told that he had a family that wanted him. It hurt.

"Please leave." He said softly, pain radiating through his body. Burke stood up, and reached over. He put a hand on the kid's head.

"I'm sorry." Peter had been one of the first on the scene. He drove like a maniac. He saw the guns aimed at the art thief. He saw Morgan Freeman shout something and then dive for one of the guns. He saw the panicked and tortured look on Neal's face as the kid reached for the man. He saw them all get dropped. He saw how Freeman's body somehow ended up in Neal's arms as the kid hunched brokenly over him.

He had moved closer to get the kid's attention and see if he could help save the man's life. It was useless, and the thief was in deep shock. He was shivering violently. Peter removed his jacket to wrap around him, his gun shining in the dark light. Neal had flinched away before collapsing. His loathing for the weapon a well known fact among the agents of the FBI.

Peter had wondered on the relation between the Morgan Freeman look alike and the con artist, but he had nothing on either of them. Right now, all he knew was that Caffrey had been caught holding the bonds he created.

Somehow though, he wasn't too thrilled. Even as the court case was wrapped off and the four year sentence was delivered. He wasn't thrilled.

The first year wasn't bad though. It was spent mourning the loss of Byron. Neal spent much of his time drawing and sketching cards and teaching tricks and the like. He kept a running tally on his wall.

The second year was filled with problems on both end. Things went wrong one day and everything ended up hurting worse then usual. Several people had broken up the fight before his hands were even considered, and he was grateful because those were the only part of him that didn't hurt.

Every two weeks there'd be another attack, and his body was sore and bruising and bumping in places that made it difficult to move and difficult to feel like cooperating. His temper was running on hot all of the time, and it wasn't conducive to his health.

Eventually Peter Burke was called in, because honestly: he had no idea who else to call in. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and he was happy for it because things did work out. Though not the way he'd planned - admittedly. Peter Burke arrived, took one look at him, and was thrown into nostalgia.

Neal Caffrey was his favorite case. It was hard to admit that he liked any case more then him, and because of that he made certain that he kept out of it as much as he could from now Caffrey though, he got drawn in. It was something in how the kid did things.

No one was ever harmed, everyone was always perfectly safe at all times, and because of that he gained respect from Burke. At least slightly. He abhorred criminals who hurt their victims more then just the original crime. That was never Caffrey. Caffrey was always there, sometimes putting his own safety at risk to make sure that others were alright.

He'd send food to the surveillance vans, and he'd send cards every holiday and birthday. He was always a step ahead of everyone, and he was always there to help out whenever anyone really needed it. Even when he was being hunted himself, Burke could recall getting tips on various criminals.

At first he'd wondered why Caffrey would do such things, but then he simply logged it away as him just being who he was. He would find out much later that all of the people that were arrested whenever he received a tip from Neal, had crossed the conman at some point or time. One particular bastard – had run over a five year old girl while she was skipping rope because he was too busy making his getaway to look before he turned.

Caffrey had done more work on that tip then any other. It involved photos, license plates numbers, VIN numbers, and even the apartment building of the perp. Burke had been the one to talk to the child's parents. They were the ones who told him that a young twenty-something man with dark hair and blue eyes had been walking on the other side of the street. He'd seen the car coming and had started yelling for their daughter to move. He even started to run to push her out of the way – he never made it.

They said that the man held the child in his arms, frantically trying to do CPR and put pressure on her injuries at the same time. He stayed with them in the hospital until it was announced that she was dead. They never saw the man again. He asked them if they could ID him, and they said yes. When he showed them Caffrey's photo, they said it was Neal.

Burke put the driver of that vehicle away with great prejudice. That night the television would announce that tips from the community had been a huge help in solving the case. When he returned to his car to get back home, he found a thank you card attached to a painting that Caffrey had been suspected of stealing in the front seat of his taurus.

He traced the painting and card, but it wasn't signed and had no prints or hair or DNA or anything. The present could very well have put Neal in jail, but there was no damning evidence to say that he did it. If he asked, Caffrey was certain to have had a fool proof alibi with witnesses.

The chase had been fun though. More fun then anything else. He'd had many times where he'd raced down the streets of New York, trying to catch up with the much faster and slicker man. In the beginning it always started just like that – him running after Neal. He didn't even know the bastard's name, but he knew that he could run!

He'd follow Caffrey the best he could, but invariably the man would always vanish into the crowds and all he'd be left with was an origami flower or giraffe or some such thing waiting for him at his car when he returned. He felt terribly mocked for the first year he'd been chasing Caffrey.

They used to call him Casper. He was a friendly ghost that was always willing to help them out but vanished and seemed to simply slip through walls when he needed too. It was fitting, especially when they discovered his last name and how close they sounded. That had been the revelation that had made Burke gleam with pride. When he'd finally managed to catch a look at the con artist's face.

Another run, and another long chase. He was certain that the convict was laughing at him while he was sprinting, because every once and a while he'd hear a chuckle float backwards towards him. He hated it. He was running hard and he was running fast, and once again he lost him.

Standing in the crowded area near thirty-fourth and seventh, he was forced to return to his base. Under the blinking lights of Madison Square Garden, he conceded defeat. Still, he really wanted a bottle of water and was more then a little tempted to call to get a pick up instead of walking all the way back to the heist. Entering a Subway restaurant not too far off the beaten path, he blinked in surprise as he saw the very familiar back of the man he was certain he'd been chasing.

He was busy ordering lettuce and olives on his foot-long, and Burke rolled his eyes. He was just about to approach him, when the door opened, the bell dinged, and a bullet tore through the restaurant and slammed into the chest of one of the employees.

Burke dropped to the ground out of instinct, his eyes going to the gunman and leaving his suspect in a flash. "Put the money in the bag, now!" He was holding out a sack, and was quickly moving towards the counter. He had a partner, blocking the door and lowering the shades so the outside of the store couldn't see what was happening.

Burke watched as his suspect looked around. He caught his face for the first time. Dazzling blue eyes and an obnoxiously handsome face. He looked like he'd stepped out of GQ. Their eyes met, and he caught the faintest look of surprise that told him that this _was_ his suspect, and damn...did he know that face. He recognized it instantly, knowing he'd seen it before, and he laughed under his breath for not figuring it out sooner.

The Subway employees were a mess, trying to figure out what to do. The girl at the register was shaking and crying as the gun was shoved into her face. Burke's hand twitched towards his gun, and he saw Casper scowl slightly.

"If you want money so badly, then shooting them isn't going to help." Casper's voice was oddly calm and he leaned against the glass of the sandwich window. Burke shook his head ever so slightly. Now was not the time for him to be doing any heroics.

"What would you know of it?" The shooter asked, aiming the gun at Casper now. Those blue eyes never flinched, but his fingers were twitching ever so slightly at his side. Peter stared at it, that pattern...was familiar.

_I-C-A-N-D-I-S-T-R-A-C-T-H-I-M _

Burke winced. He did not want Casper doing anything. Then again, the tapping continued.

_G-I-R-L-F-R-I-E-N-D-C-O-M-I-N-G-S-O-ON_

Well that explained the heroics. The agent nodded though. As long as the friendly ghost didn't decide to get too friendly. They were still talking.

"Money's easy to come by, but this? This is a sure fire way of getting yourself arrested by the cops." Casper kept talking, his eyes trained on the man with the gun, even as Burke tried to figure out what to do to keep everyone in the sandwich shop safe. "How do you know one of these customers isn't carrying? Or isn't undercover?"

"You volunteering to get frisked pretty boy?" There was a distinct look of annoyance in Casper's eyes at that.

"Not hardly. I just find that this particular situation couldn't have been worse planned, for everyone involved."

The door was pulled open, and instantly the gun was trained on the young brunette who'd entered. The doorman spun about ready to bludgeon the intruder. Her eyes met Casper's first, and then she glanced into the street behind her. "You move one inch princess, and you're dead." From the rigid way that Casper was standing suddenly, Burke guessed correctly that this was his girlfriend. "Come inside." She nodded, walking slowly towards them.

"This is the last time you choose the restaurant Neal." She sighed slightly, seemingly unconcerned with the predicament. Casper held his hand out slowly so all could see it was still empty. She moved towards him and settled at his side, both looking out of place they were so relaxed.

"My apologies. Moretti'll give me another day off soon. I'll make it up to you then." His voice was deathly calm, and the gunman faltered.

"Moretti?"

"Told you this was a bad day for you. You know who this is?" He motioned towards his supposed girlfriend. "His niece, just came in yesterday. You start firing that gun anywhere near her and you're in a body bag before dawn." Burke had to admit, the story sounded more convincing then just a story. Still, he worked enough with enough organized crime cases in his day to know that Moretti didn't have any nieces. Especially not ones that were free to go around by themselves to meet up with their boyfriend art thieves.

"You're lying."

"One phone call and you'll be wishing you were never born. You shot the kid back there, you realize that now all the cops are going to be looking at us? You've put a bad mark on us kid. You're looking at a lot more then just jail time right now. The Moretti's are going to be after you." Burke saw his opportunity, the door man and had shifted to just the right position. He kicked out, pulled his gun from its holster and fired two quick shots, one blowing away the gun still aimed at Casper and his girl, the other putting the main threat out of commission. "Cutting it a little close huh pal?" He heard the suspect hiss, and he looked towards him in annoyance.

"He was pissing his pants, I think you were okay." Burke shot back, irritated to say the least that he was being berated after all of this. He grabbed the doorman's wrists and cuffed them to keep him still.

"Yeah, whatever."

"You know you're still under arrest?"

"For what? Grabbing a sandwich and getting held up?" The would-be-gunman (who was not so out of commission as originally thought) glowered up at them, and tackled Casper to the ground. The girl screamed, stumbling back. Peter hissed and shot forwards, trying to pull the man off of the forger. Casper was getting beaten good, his hands were out trying to free himself, but it didn't get far until Burke dragged the gunman and cuffed him to one of the tables.

Burke wiped sweat from his brow and sighed heavily, getting a good look at the couple now that the danger had mostly passed. Casper – Neal? - as rubbing blood off his lip, and his girl was helping him to his feet.

"Are you seriously going to tell me you had nothing to do with the heist that was just pulled ten blocks over?" Pure innocence was on Casper's face.

"I was on my way here to meet up with Kate for lunch. I have no idea what you're talking about. _You're _welcome by the way...Mr...?"

"_Agent_ Burke. Peter Burke." There was a bright smile on the kid's face that he didn't trust. Even as he called backup to arrest the two would-be-robbers and sent for an ambulance for the employee, Casper didn't so much as drop the smile or take his arm off Kate.

They muddled through the questions they were asked and eventually the pair were released to go. Only this time, they left their names behind. Neal Caffrey and Kate Moreau. His Bonnie and Clyde. And he remembered them from a time long ago too...he couldn't believe it took him this long to put it together. He felt like an idiot.

Yes, chasing Neal had been some of the funnest years of his career. It ended terribly though. With the Morgan Freeman look alike dead in the kid's arms and his entire body shaking from shock, he had seen Casper in a state that he'd never wanted to see the kid in again.

That first year after everything had settled. The cases were boring. Money laundering, mortgage fraud, it was all the same old thing. No more paper cranes, no more anything. Everything was all a complete and total mess. He wanted Caffrey free so he could chase him again. He wanted a real challenge.

So he was surprised to say the least when he came home one night and had his wife, El, tell him that he needed to listen to the answering machine right away.

"_Hey Peter...it's Neal Caffrey. Look I know this is a little odd...but I need your help...can you come to the prison?" _

He was certain it was a trap, but he couldn't figure out how it would be. Still he did go as he was asked. He showed up, and asked to meet with Caffrey, only to be shown down a long set of halls to a solitary confinement chamber.

"Why's he in solitary?"

"Protection." Was all the orderly would say.

He stepped inside, and saw that Neal was laying with his back turned to the door – supposedly sleeping. Peter stepped closer, and heard the familiar sound of a cuff being clicked into place. He rolled his eyes.

"You know, they put those on you for a reason, not so you can take them off whenever you damn well please." One shoulder shrugged, and then slowly the body turned to face him. Burke blanched. Huge bruises swelled down the side of his face. His lips were cracked and bleeding. He looked like he was in a huge amount of pain – which explained why he made no attempt to sit up.

"Hey Peter...what brings you here?" He tried to sound cool and nonchalant, but it just made Peter worry all the more.

"What happened to you?"

"I think someone's trying to kill me." He said seriously, his tone not holding a single mocking note in it. It was so good, Burke almost forgot he was a conman. He just kept his head straight and looked at the kid impassively.

"That's kind of an exaggeration don't you think."

"Five guys taking iron pipes to you saying that they were told to finish you off doesn't sound like overcautious hype."

"Cowboy up Neal. You're in prison, inmates get into fights all the time." A look of hurt flashed across the conman's face.

"You're not going to look into it?"

"No, you got into a fight with convicts – something you are. Sorry Neal, not everything is a con. You can't sweet talk your way out of this one." A weary wave of sadness crossed his face, and Burke pretended he didn't see it.

Four days later he was back in the prison, this time staring at the conman as he slept in a hospital bed. He was pale as a ghost, and the office's old nick name for him came back. Casper didn't look too good right now. They'd given him sedatives because apparently he'd gotten combative the moment he'd woken up, and that was out of character for the kid. Burke hated it.

"Tried to drown him in the toilet." The Warden told him. The kid looked like crap, and was put up on the good drugs. Maybe it was start to take these death threats seriously.

His wrists were violently grabbed and bruises could still be seen from where they'd held him down. He hadn't been able to fight back in his position. "Why would someone want to kill Neal?" He asked the Warden, his mouth pressed in a thin line.

"This was just a hazing gone wrong, not a murder attempt."

"Think what you want. That's the second time in one week that I've been called down here and he's been assaulted."

"He _wasn't_ assaulted." The man insisted hurriedly. It took a moment before Burke caught what meaning had been misinterpreted. His mind went red.

"You better hope not. I would hate to see a fine upstanding gentleman such as yourself going down for allowing something like that to happen in this facility." Burke decided to wait until Casper woke up.

It didn't take too long, the kid opened his eyes groggily and sat up rigidly, ignoring the pain in his chest as he looked around frantically. Peter stood up slowly, catching the conman's eyes. The request was clear. _Get me out of here_. He shook his head. No. _Please_. No. Casper looked away.

"Who was the man who died that night?" It was random giving the context, but it was something Burke had always wanted to know. Why had Neal forsaken everything and let himself get caught? He'd been in so much shock that he hadn't even thought about escaping or damning the evidence. Why?

"Foster father." That came out of left field, and Burke suddenly remembered very clearly how Caffrey had reacted when he'd announced the man's death. He had been shattered by that news, and he felt the urge to apologize. He did so. Neal shrugged. "Forget it."

"Who wants to kill you?"

"Don't know." He sounded strangely apathetic. "Forget that too."

"I'm not going to get you out of jail Neal. You serve your time right-"

"I got it. I get it. Cowboy up. Can you go now?"

"I'll find out who's behind this."

"Sure. Never had a doubt. I want to be alone." Somehow Peter knew that being left alone meant he really did want company. The kid was a wreck. He was terribly claustrophobic and he'd done an admirable job so far in captivity, but with all of this chaos it was getting harder for him to breathe.

He first realized that Casper was claustrophobic after he had attempted to catch the kid in the act and the elevator he was on somehow – because his luck apparently was never the greatest- managed to stop. Both of them were trapped and had to wait for the fire department to show up. Burke wasn't too concerned because he was certain in the time they had, he could pry a confession from the younger man.

After two hours of being trapped though, he was far more concerned with getting the kid air. He had long since sank to the floor and had been quietly hyperventilating while his hands knotted his hair distractedly.

"Why're you so bad with small spaces?" Burked had asked him as he tried to get the kid to breathe. It was hard work. He seemed determined to gasp himself into unconscious.

"Have you ever been locked in a closet for two days?" Burke didn't answer. The elevator started. They were saved, and he watched Caffrey stumble away – Kate met him at the entrance and helped him to a car. That was that.

Prison was a death sentence. He honestly was sick and tired of the cells and the food and the just well...prison-like qualities that it had. Burke knew it. He knew it and he enforced it. That's what Neal gets for getting caught.

This was too much though. He put a hand on the thief's head, promised to catch the bastard again, then left. Neal didn't say anything else. They didn't see each other anymore. Peter never came back. The attacks stopped. He found out later that someone he'd stolen from was the one that was trying to get revenge on him. He found himself not caring.

The third year was the hardest. Every week Kate would come. Same as always. She was all smiles and stories. She told him about what Burke was working on because she knew it would interest him. She told him about the new Canadian hundred, and he memorized the details. His memory as too damn good to forget anything she said.

Every time, before she left, she'd lean forwards and kiss the glass just where his lips were on the other side. They never touched, but they had that. They had that. Kate was his world.

They met when he had turned sixteen. She was on the streets and they gravitated towards each other. The three of them, him, Moz, and Kate, were all there was. Kate was looking for her father, and they eventually found him. The man was dying of AIDS, something he'd contracted after years of drug use and even more years of promiscuous sex. No one said anything as the casket was lowered into the ground. They just turned and walked away. Kate was his everything. He just didn't know it yet.

When they first started going together, it really wasn't a matter of anything except sex. He had been warped by his parents and she had been hurt by those she couldn't remember. They both had too much booze in them and her hands were on him and suddenly it didn't matter that Moz was only ten feet away. They were kissing and hungry and they wanted things that they couldn't grasp in their minds that thought of nothing.

Moz said something about needing to get something and he left. Sex was good. It was great. It felt nothing like it had when they were too young to understand, and it was everything that got them going. Two days later, after they had screwed and fucked and cursed, and just basically did each other all night, he came home with the bottle of Bordeaux.

"Let's have a better life. One day we'll get this, and it'll be new. We'll pop this cork, and it's going to be great." It was an odd kind of pact – but no matter what they did in life, they never ordered a new bottle of Bordeaux. They promised: that would be for the day they got married and put this life behind them.

Kate and him travelled to France. They loved France. They loved the Louvre. They loved the sights. They became fluent in French. After France, they moved to Italy. From Italy to Spain. They went to Moskva. They went to Tokyo. All the while they would steal and fence, and they became a perfect pair.

Mozzie visited often, and yet was always very comfortable in his storage unit – their first home. Neal made fun of it sometimes, but it was still just that: the first time they ever truly lived. The first time that they were capable of feeling. It was life. Their life.

Neal first realized he was becoming famous when he was approached by a man named Nicholas Caffrey. He was an internationally renowned thief. Years later, Neal would take Nicholas's last name for his own. After Nick had died, he had declared Neal his spare for when things went wrong. The heir to his heir, and by extension - his son. Neal No-Name became adopted and entered into a family of thieves. It was as simple as that. With Nick's death, Neal also was given his own personal stalker.

Because before Peter Burke was hunting him, he'd been hunting Nicholas Caffrey. It was ironic and funny and amusing, and it made him smile. Peter had never found it funny. It didn't matter though. It was funny to Neal.

Neal, Kate, and Mozzie became members of Nicholas's gang. There were others there. Alexandra Hunter, Ryan Wilkes, Matthew Keller, and the one they called Dodger. Alex became the closest to him out of everyone. To Neal, she was the little sister that he could do anything with and not feel awkward. To Kate – she was the rival for Neal's affections. To Mozzie – she was his best friend next to Neal. They were very close.

Neal and Alex were never anything when liquor wasn't involved. And between her wanting Neal, and Keller wanting Kate there were always ploys to get them drunk. Mozzie and Dodger took care of Kate, but Neal and Alex did have nights were wild abandon felt so much better.

Kate understood better then most. To Neal, as sacred as sex with her was, his mother had been a whore and he was well used to and well aware of how sex could be something that wasn't important at all. Physical release. Neal and Alex had sex, but Neal only ever made love to Kate.

His touch was sensual and sweet and she was well aware that he was never that way with Alex. It didn't matter. She didn't care to be jealous over the younger girl. She was a better fence, a better thief, and a better lover. Alex never stood a chance. Despite that she was always willing to offer Neal her heart.

It was something that had always bothered Kate though. No matter how many times the two of them had sex and were promiscuous, and no matter how many times Neal had come back to her – he and Alex would always remain very close friends. Soon they did heists together and Kate felt left out.

One heist went wrong though, and Alex went to the hospital. Kate put her foot down, and she forced a guilt torn Neal to leave and not look back. Alex never called again. She never showed up. They were gone for good. The two never spoke. There was no more wild and careless sex. It was just Kate, and yet despite that – Neal was always sad when he thought about Alex.

"She was one of my best friends." He told Kate bitterly, "I should have visited her." Kate and him made love that night though, and every night after, until he stopped thinking about Alex.

Dodger was Nicholas's son; real name: Christopher. Just like in Oliver and Company, he was the thing that held their group together and brought the masses in. Their loyalty to Nick was always because Dodger was there. He was their protector and their friend.

He acted as a way person between Wilkes, Keller, and the 'non violent' crowd that comprised of the other four. He taught them how to con. He taught them how to disappear. He taught them how to live. He was their good friend.

He too was shot and killed, and he too died in Neal's arms. Peter Burke was the investigating agent. He had been staking out Nicholas at the time, and when he heard the shots fired, he'd rushed into the building. A twenty-one year old Neal was holding the man he called 'brother' to his chest, drenched in his blood. Nicholas was dead. The three witnesses vanished without a trace before back up could be called, all that was left behind were three origami roses that were placed over Dodger's heart.

Years later, Peter would ask where they went. Neal would tell him nothing. He'd been half out of his mind in terror and everyone else had been running for him. He didn't even know what happened to his clothes. He just remembered waking up for countless nights because he'd see the door open and Dodger walk in only to be shot by someone behind him. Blood splattered all over Neal, and he would dream about that blood endlessly.

Kate took care of him like she always did. Somehow though, everything stopped feeling so alive. Neal needed her to survive. He couldn't imagine life without her. He couldn't do anything without her. That didn't stop him from being utterly and ruthlessly confused as to what exactly a life with her entailed.

When she asked, Neal told her his stash was in San Diego, that was a lie. When Moz asked, Neal told him the stash was in Portland, that too was a lie. If Alex asked, Neal would tell her that it was in Toronto. She never asked though, and so she'd never know if she'd have learned the truth or not.

Kate never went on heists with Neal though, and Alex was always his partner...when they were partners. If anyone deserved to know...he supposed it would be Alex. His heart was torn. Kate, or Alex. He picked Kate, even though a part of him told him that the smarter decision was Alex. Even though a part of him told him that Alex would never ask for anything more then he could give or she could get. Kate...Kate was his world though.

Emotionally he had no choice but to be with Kate. Through all of his break downs, through all of his pain, through everything – she had been there. That hadn't been Alex. Kate had seen him when he was homeless. Kate had been there when he was starving. They had conned their way into a five star hotel on their first date and yet would forever be enamored with the broken down bridges of the world outside.

That was forever their way: being attracted to things that were out of their reach, and yet being in love with what they already had. Kate wanted more. Kate always wanted more. Because she wanted more, Neal would give her the world. So why...why was he so content with looking at broken bridges and destroyed lives as long as he had her? She didn't want poverty – she wanted glamour and make up and to be involved with the upper class. She wanted to live in Holliswood...he was happy with Harlem.

And Alex? Well he abandoned Alex after that one job...there was no more Alex.

That third year was the worst, because four and a half months before it was going to be all over and he could finally go home and live his life with the woman he loved: she left. She said _adios_ and vanished. He felt drenched with cold water. He felt like the world had stopped turning. Everything fell apart. He forgot to breathe.

* * *

Mozzie knew nothing. No one knew anything. He needed to breathe. He couldn't breathe. He felt like he was trapped in that closet back home again. He felt like he could hear his mother having sex with strangers and he felt like he was trapped and couldn't get away from it or couldn't find freedom. He felt the suffocating grab of someone who wanted to kill him. He felt like there was a gun aimed at his head.

He felt like he was dying already. His heart was shattered, and as he stood on the scale of life, his sanity tilted. Everything faded away. He needed Kate. He needed to find her. She was his validation. She was what made him feel like he was a person – a human being. She was his world. His everything. His Kate. He needed her just as much as anything else. He felt his soul shatter.

Nothing made sense until he escaped prison and ended up staring at the bottle in the empty apartment. He ran up those stairs and he threw open the door. Only Kate wasn't there. She wasn't going to be there. She wasn't going to be coming back.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Why the hell did she say goodbye? His mind was swimming, he couldn't think straight. He couldn't do anything but stare at the bottle. He knew he should leave. He knew that he should just take the bottle and disappear, but he couldn't do that. He couldn't leave this apartment. He just couldn't.

Pain filled his whole body and he crumbled. He tilted. He wavered. He was drowning. Just like before. Only this time there weren't hands holding him down. There weren't shouts and mocking screams. There weren't people trying to shove his head into the scum filled area that would leave him feeling infested for weeks...

No, he was drowning on everything else. The hands became the world. His consequences, his actions, his love, his pain, his shattered past that kept replaying in his mind. Byron's death, Christopher's death, Nicholas's death, guns upon guns that were aimed at him. Blood everywhere. Bodies and graves and head stones, and art. All of it mixed together in a disgusting tableau that left him motionless until Peter Burke arrived.

He needed help. He needed someone to be there. He needed a fix. He needed someone to ground him. He was spinning out of control. He couldn't see straight. He couldn't move. He needed – help!

_Help me!_ He begged it with all his being.

But everything was a con. He needed to fix everything. The only way he knew how was to manipulate the system. "One week." He said after he awed Burke once again. It was the only thing he could do.

The first week back was terrible. The other inmates wanted to know how he had the balls to do what he did, and he was too weak and too fragile to keep his mind on anything except for the utter pain shooting through his chest. He needed freedom. He needed to escape. He needed to breathe.

Everything was closing in on him. He didn't know if he could keep the smiles up anymore, so when Peter said no, he was strongly considering damning it all to hell and making another escape attempt – this time he wouldn't be turning back and he wouldn't wait to be caught. This time he was going to leave forever.

Peter could attend his funeral and arrest all his friends. Moz would be the first person to be washed away with grief. He could almost see his friend, his best friend, charging forwards and cursing Burke to perdition. For some reason he thought about Alex and whether or not she'd come if he finally got tired of it all and left this world.

For some reason she saw her crying in her room as she held an antique doll that belonged to Anastasia to her chest. The doll had been one of their more bizarre heists together, but she loved it. He liked her smile when she held it. The doll would be covered in tears, but his grave would receive none.

No one would attend his funeral except for Burke. Somehow, he knew Burke would attend. That didn't bother him though. He knew that was how it would be.

He didn't imagine Kate's reaction. A part of him wanted her to be sad. A part of him wanted her to be horrified. A part of _him _was terrified that she wouldn't be. A part of him was certain she'd just shrug and move on, and once more he wouldn't be worth a damn.

Then Burke came through.

* * *

Stepping out of prison had been liberating, it had been freeing. It had been justice. It was a renewal. He glowed. He soaked up the sun. He smiled. He felt like dancing. Burke was a kill joy.

He was all serious and hell bent on making his time on the outside the least amount of fun as possible. The hotel (_motel _with an m...despite what the sign said) was roach filled and disease ridden. It was worse then prison. At least there he knew he was safe from anything that could poison him. He felt stabbing nightmares he'd long since repressed coming back out.

Images of his mother sucking dick and cock being shoved into her holes all at once, memories of men holding him down while Moz screamed and started throwing things, banished thoughts of when he grabbed a gun and shot everyone there – a triple homicide. The night he ran away from home, the night he became homeless, the night that he stopped being Jaimie Daniels and started being Neal No-Name. (No one but Moz would know that it came from a time when all he was told to do was kneel. Kneel. Kneel. So his name came easy...it was his one command...Neal).

He'd been in a seedy hotel just like this and once again he'd been ruthlessly reminded that his mother didn't care about him or his safety. That night didn't stream properly in a continuous timeline. It was one of the few times his photographic memory stopped working. He was grateful for it, because the things he could remember – he didn't want to remember.

Blood, pain, panic, shock, terror, help! He was drowning again, the pain and the fears over coming him. The hands shoved him down, his clothes were torn. He was kicked, he was slapped, he was being laughed at. He was crying. The door was thrown open. Memphis was standing there with a broom stick looking terribly unthreatening for a twelve year old. He charged forwards and wielded it violently.

They were laughing at him, he recognized the man who was grabbing his friend at long last. That night it had been Memphis's father who had come to screw his mom. His dad had laughed right along with it. They were all high and drunk. He didn't even want to be there, but his dad had grabbed him by the back of the neck and had dragged him all the way there. Everyone was already out of it. The room smelt of drugs and sex.

He recalled being shoved down and the mocking and hitting started. Then it got worse, and things blurred. He recalled screaming, then Memphis standing there with the broom. Then everyone was shouting. Memphis was getting beaten to death, he could still hear his friend's shouts. No one was coming. No one ever came. No one ever would come. No one cared.

His dad had a gun on the table, he always had it with him when he did his drug deals. He grabbed the gun and he aimed it first at Memphis' father. The man dropped dead in one shot. Then down went his dad, and his mom was last. Memphis stared up at him in dumb shock, and he couldn't help but stare at the scene blankly.

His mind blurred, events twisted, the gun felt like a demon in his hand. He raised it to his own head. Memphis tackled him, wrenching the gun away from him and dragging him out of the hotel. They tossed the gun in the river, and left – never coming back. Never again. This was never happening again.

Memphis became Moz. Jaimie became Neal. Neither of them had names.

Until Haversham was so kind. Until Caffrey adopted him. Until they felt family once more...only to have that family destroyed just like everything else in their lives. Neal couldn't stay in this hotel. The memories were drowning him. The feeling of water around his head and squeezing into his eyes and nose and mouth and ears made him gasp.

He couldn't stay here. His mind was reeling. He needed to leave. Needed to get out. Claustrophobia was settling in once more. He needed to leave. Now.

He dropped his things off in the room and practically ran out the door. He couldn't breathe. God, he couldn't breathe. He needed freedom. He needed to escape. His eyes went to the tracker. He just had to cut it. He just had to cut it and then run. No one would be able to catch him in time. He'd made more then enough escapes then he cared to in less then five minutes. He could vanish before anything happened.

_No!_ His head reeled. He needed to breathe. He needed to breathe. Calm down. Deep breaths. He couldn't leave. Kate needed him. He needed this. He needed to stay grounded. He needed a purpose. He needed a reason, and for whatever uncertain understanding: Peter was trusting him on this. That meant a lot. So few people ever gave him the benefit of the doubt.

He walked to the thrift store around the corner. He entered it with a brief smile at the blonde behind the counter, and he started towards the clothes. He barely had any money, and he wasn't sure he could find something that would be presentable in the FBI offices. He felt like he was going to be destroyed once more. He felt like he was going to suffocate again. His vision swam.

He forced himself to stare at the clothes. He forced himself to sort through the racks. The door opened, and he glanced behind him to see who it was, and he froze. Only for half a second, because no...it couldn't possibly be...that wasn't probable at all.

She was donating clothes, her late husband's clothes. She was gorgeous. She was unfailingly kind. She didn't recognize him, and somehow he managed to keep breathing when she mentioned her late husband's name. His mind reeled and he found himself continuing the conversation. He kept speaking, and soon they were laughing and talking.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to be twelve years old again and sit on her counter and have her put peroxide on his cuts. He wanted to never have met Kate, and to never have gone home, and to have never left the mansion that night. He wanted to live. He wanted family. He wanted to _breathe._

"Oh, how rude of me. My name is June LeRoy, and you are?" He hesitated. A part of him wanted to call himself Jaimie Daniels.

"Neal Caffrey." He introduced lightly. He wasn't that kid anymore. Time to grow up. Time to accept who he became. Even if it hurt. "I know we just met, but I'm looking for a place to stay right now...I don't have much money, only seven hundred a month...I could help you with anything that you needed, and work around the house for you." She looked at him for a brief moment, before smiling.

"Please, Neal, I would be honored to have you in my home. Shall we collect your things?" She looked apologetically at the blonde woman. "I'm afraid Madam, that these clothes have spoken for themselves. They really do look very good on you." She smiled to him and he felt that warm fuzzy feeling that kids always get when they please their parents.

Somehow, wearing Byron's clothes made him feel attached to this world. They made him feel as though he were living again. As though Byron had his back, he'd be safe if he kept on this path. In a religious sense, it felt as though Byron was with him...and always watching over him. They didn't make him feel strange or uncomfortable...they simply made him feel safe. Just like how he'd felt when the man had hugged him again after all those years.

He lead her the point two miles it took to get to the hotel, her arm linked on his as he politely and graciously was at her beck and call. The look on her face when he stopped caused him to feel dirty and unclean though. He fought the urge to remove himself from her. He couldn't do that. Still, being next to her made him feel awful suddenly, and he politely asked her if she wouldn't mind waiting for him to collect his paperwork.

"Paperwork?" He hesitated, and then realized he never told her the truth.

"I'm a convicted felon...I was arrested for bond forgery. Peter Burke put me in jail for four years, I ran a couple weeks ago. I'm out now on work release. Four years helping the FBI solve cases. If I fail a case I go back to jail for the rest of my sentence. If I run, for the rest of my life." He met her eyes. "I'll understand if you don't want me staying..."

"Oh Neal, please, Byron was a felon too." He felt his heart soar.

"I'll be right back."

"No, no...let me see where they put you." It was morbid curiosity, but he couldn't deny her her whims. So he led her inside. Instantly she gasped and stared around her in pure horror. "Never, I could never let you stay here. You're too much of a gentleman!"

She quickly called a car to pick them up, and they travelled one point six miles to her mansion. Three fifty one riverside. It was just as beautiful as he remembered. He fell in love with it all over again. He resisted the urge to run up to his bedroom and see if it was the same as it used to be.

She showed him inside, and suddenly he was drowning again. He saw blood and guns and June and Byron on the floor. He took a step back, squeezed his eyes shut and fought to breathe. June turned to look at him in concern, one hand touching his face. He looked up at her, their eyes meeting. "Sorry." He couldn't explain, not yet. Not right now. She hesitated, her eyes unfailingly sharp for some unknown reason.

She led him into the living room, where she'd been shot and he'd run away, and his eyes went to the mantle. He froze. There was a photograph of him. He was twelve years old, happy, healthy, and his cast had just come off. He moved to the frame woddenly. His fingers touched his face. When was the last time he felt that happy? He couldn't remember.

"Jaimie?" He turned around, and stared at June long and hard. One of her hands were moving to her mouth.

"I...It's been Neal Caffrey for a long time now." And suddenly her arms were around him. Just like with Byron he wasn't prepared for it but he quickly adjusted. She was crying, he was crying, and she kept asking him where he'd been and had he eaten enough and how he ended up in jail.

They sat down, and he told her everything. He told her about the shaking, about the nightmares, about Caffrey, about the murders, about the scars, about the pain, about the terror, and then...about Byron. She deserved to know. All the while she was silent until the end. Then she was crying, and they cried together.

She led him to his old room, hardly changed, only now the enclosed bed terrified him. She said nothing as he opened the room up to give him more space. She said nothing as he settled into the bed. She kissed his cheek, told him she loved him, and that the house was his to do with. He thanked her...and then borrowed her phone.

"Moz?" He whispered into the dark.

"You escaped!"

"Yes, but was caught again, now I'm out on work release. I'm over at 351 riverside...Moz I need help finding Kate. Can you try to track her down?"

"Kate, Kate, always Kate."

"Please...she could be in danger." His friend was rolling his eyes, he just knew it.

"Fine."

And so it was. Neal Caffrey, consultant for the FBI. He was surrounded by suspicion and people belittling him when Peter wasn't looking...but he didn't care. He felt grounded. He was given a plan, and clothes, and a reason, and he loved every second of it.

The first month was okay. There were some rough patches, and there were some rules he needed to understand. That was just what it was all about. He wasn't too fond of the flirting and the way that people looked at him like they just wanted him for sex, but he was used to it by now. Sex was sex. He made love to no one but Kate. He didn't care about his own body. He didn't care about anything. It was all appearances.

But kissing was different. He had been startled during one case where lips met his. His eyes flew open, his body felt rigid. He was lost in memories, and for a moment he couldn't reel himself together properly. He forced his mind blank, into that sweet and safe territory of conning. This was a con. This was life. Neal Caffrey didn't exist. Nothing did. Only what they wanted to see mattered. His body and soul were not his own, the blinking light on his ankle told him as much.

The second month was good. There were cases upon cases, and he felt the drowning sensation lesson over time. He felt like he could breathe again. He wasn't being suffocated anymore. He could think clearly.

The third, fourth, and fifth months were all similar. Mortgage fraud, art heists, bank robberies, it was fun. He found himself glowing under the FBI's tutelage. He found himself becoming closer to Burke. He had someone who didn't accept the wrongs that he did, and yet was still willing to help him become a better person.

Someone had faith in him.

Mozzie moved in, slept on the couch and he felt like he wasn't alone anymore. Even if he was, it didn't matter. He felt good. He felt content. He was happy. June was there, he had his foster mother back even though he'd killed his real mom. He felt the world start to ease into a familiar and comfortable pattern.

Then Kate came along. She was in danger. She needed help. She needed to know where he put his things. Why? What did he have? What was so important?

Then there was Meilin Wong. Their night in the hotel was something that had given him pause for thought. They'd been together for six hours. She had come to him, told him that she'd always wanted to ride a stallion and his mind blanked. If he wanted Kate, he'd have to play by her rules. Nothing else.

So he did. He took off her clothes, he stripped off his, and he filled her with everything that she thought that she wanted. She didn't stop moaning for hours. He finished after satisfying her endlessly. She couldn't have been more pleased. He found himself not caring much. He lay in that bed, stared up at the ceiling, and forced himself to not care.

His body wasn't important. He wasn't important.

He started to feel the world closing in on him. The walls were moving closer, the windows were slammed tight, the door was locked. He couldn't breathe. He needed to breathe. He needed to get out! He choked, stood up and threw himself out of bed. Running to the window he threw it open and gasped as the cold air hit his face.

In. Out. In. Out.

The next day he was still trying to keep his reeling mind in tact. He needed Kate. He needed Kate. He needed to stop the pain in his heart. He needed to stop the hurt that was radiating through him. Was he only good for a lay? Was he just a whore? Who was he? Who the hell was Neal Caffrey? Or was it Nick Halden? Steve Tabernacle? Jaimie Daniels?

_Help me. _

"FBI." She told him that one word and his world closed down around him. FBI. FBI. FBI. FBI. FBI. Hughes? Cruz? Jones? Not Peter...

FBI. FBI. FBI.

Someone in the FBI had Kate. His world crumbled. His scale tipped. Sanity was drifting away. He needed to run. He needed to be free. He had to get out. He had to escape. He couldn't stay here anymore. He wasn't grounded. He needed freedom. He needed Kate. He needed arms around him, he needed safety and security. He needed love. He needed freedom. He needed air.

He left the office early. He couldn't be there. He couldn't deal with them. He needed to breathe. He needed to breathe. The world was drowning him. Everything was falling apart. _Help. Help me. _

Garret Fowler strangled him worse then anyone else. His head was filled with hatred and pain and he couldn't get it out of his mind. He couldn't get it to leave his skin. The man showed up, and the world stopped turning.

Suddenly he was off to jail again. The walls closing in on him, the cell doors slamming shut, the orange jump suit. The water. No air. No air. He couldn't breathe. Anger and pain and frustration led Neal to be infuriated at Peter.

The man had given him one dignity in the office. He had put his jacket over his cuffs to keep him from being gawked at too badly. He felt at least like a person when he left that office, even though the snide remarks in the elevator that was packed with Fowler, his man, Hughes, Burke, and him. He couldn't breathe. He felt his head spinning. Peter had his hand on his shoulder – grounding him. To what? Where was the tether attached to? Where was he going? What was his position? Where was he?

_Help..._

The bars slammed behind him, and he nearly fainted. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. There wasn't any air. He was choking, sobbing, gasping, incoherent, then the world faded, and he felt numb. He stared at the ceiling, and his mind worked. Casper shone through. This wasn't right. He was innocent. _Prove it. _

_Okay. _

Even though he was free from jail, he was still hurt by the fact that Peter hadn't trusted him. He still had bruises on his ribs from where the inmates let him know just what they thought of the fact that he was a snitch to the FBI now. He forced himself to not remember those details. His nightmares remained focused on guns and pain and trauma.

That was good enough for him.

Only Peter seemed determined to make his life miserable. The fake stock trading was fine and all, he was doing great with that...until he discovered that Peter had the ring in the photo with Kate. He had taken Kate.

His world fell apart again. The scale tipped so badly that he wasn't sure it could ever be even again. Justice wasn't working properly. He needed to run. He couldn't stay here. He consulted Mozzie. Enough was enough...time to go. Time to go.

Burked liked treating him like he was incompetent while he was undercover. He didn't like that. The cool feeling of the gun in his hands as they handed it to him made his head swim. He shot the gun perfectly though and sent a snide comment to Burke. He couldn't deal with this anymore.

The pain, the backstabbing, Kate, the sex, the lies, the confusion. Who was he? Who was Neal Caffrey? He didn't know anymore. He didn't know anymore. _Help me._

Then they were in that room...and he had the option. Save Peter's life...or save himself. It didn't matter to him. There was only one option. He gave Peter the breathing tank, and he didn't think twice about it. His life was forfeit. He didn't care anymore.

Everyday he felt like he couldn't breathe. Everyday he felt like his heart was stopping. A disease had crawled into his body, and its name was depression. Anxiety strangled his lungs and he couldn't let go of it.

If he was going to die...this was the way that was most fitting. So as their room lost air, he didn't care. He just searched and searched for the off switch and moved on. His mind was on so many things, but mainly it was on the fact that he didn't want Peter to die. He didn't want anyone else to die because of him. He didn't want anyone else to die. He wanted to end it. He wanted it all to be over. He wanted the world to just stop.

His vision swam as he saw the switch. He smiled, and motioned to Peter, and then fainted. What a way to go.

The seventh and eighth month hurt worse then the last. Because even though Peter was innocent, his life had been saved, and he wasn't suffocating anymore – strange how the actual physical feeling of suffocation did wonders for his psychological pain – Alex was there now. And Alex meant that his heart was burning every second.

She undid him. She made him wish. She made him want. She made him feel like he could do anything. She made him love. Because he did. He loved her. He loved her smile and her laugh and her arms and her words and her heart. He loved that she loved him. He loved her, and yet he would do nothing about it. He could do nothing about it. He loved Alex. He loved Kate more. Kate was who he needed. Not Alex.

Then they sprang out of the ground like cockroaches. After Alex came Keller. Keller had always been an irritating bastard. He'd been pissed that Caffrey had given his name to Neal and not to him. He'd been mad as hell that Dodger claimed Neal his brother and no one else. He was infuriated that Kate chose Neal and he was alone.

Still, Keller loved to tease. Neal hated him for it, but there was nothing he could do. It felt nice to get one up on Keller. It felt good to see the bastard going to jail. It made him smile to know that at the end of the day, he was still the best...and yet it tore his heart to know that their "Magnificent Seven" was falling apart.

Dodger was dead, Kate was missing, Keller was in jail, Alex hated him, he didn't even know about Wilkes...and so it was just him and Moz. Just like it always was. Just like it always would be.

Then Wilkes did appear. And he remembered why he hated the man. They never got along, and Wilkes was violent. Dodger had kept him out of harms way as much as he could when their opinions clashed, but Neal did piss the black man off severely the last time the two had been together. Neal couldn't help it though...he couldn't let those people die. Not like that. Not like that.

Putting Wilkes away was far more satisfying for Neal then it could ever have been with Keller. Keller was just an intellectual opponent...Wilkes he just simply wanted to rot. He hoped that the man got everything and more. He hoped that he couldn't breathe...and that claustrophobia would set it. He honestly hoped that Wilkes would suffer the way he had.

Then Alex was back. She was there, and his head swam and his heart leaped and she was in his life, and the lines blurred. He could find Kate with her. He could finish this all and be free. This was the ending he desired.

The plan was flawless, and even though he was betraying everyone he'd gotten to know this past year, he couldn't care less. He wanted Kate. He wanted to be able to breathe again. He needed help keeping his head out of the water. He needed help.

And then he messed up...just a little.

"We know why I'm naked, why are you?" He'd teased, as he swam with Alex in a hotel's pool. She'd wanted to make sure he wasn't bugged, and he'd indulged on a whim. He needed her. He didn't care about his body anyway. He didn't care about himself.

Alex looked at him for a long while, and smiled at him. He smiled back, they were both flirting and teasing as they always did. Then she moved closer, her hands touched his face. "It's been a long time, Caffrey." He just nodded and slowly treaded backwards until he knew he could stand. He pulled her with him.

He held her close, and without even thinking about it, he kissed her. Their lips moved with practiced ease. She was beautiful and charming, and lovely, and God if he'd met her before Kate...but he hadn't. His head spun. Air! Air! He tore away, gasping. He lost his footing.

His body fell into the water, slipping and suddenly everything made no sense. The water surrounded him and pulled him down. He couldn't swim, he could escape. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe! Help! Help!

Alex was there, her lips on his and pushing air into his mouth even as she kicked hard off the bottom of the pool and up to the surface. She held him close as he shook violently, their bodies still touching and his nakedness and hers melded perfectly.

"You're okay." She told him needlessly. "With me...you know me...you're okay." He met her eyes, beautiful eyes.

"Can't breathe." He whispered, his head was swimming. He needed space, he needed freedom. He needed air. He needed – her lips were on his and she blew into his mouth. He choked it down, stunned and startled as she held him. She stopped breathing, but their lips were still touching.

And for the first time in nearly a year – he forgot about Kate. For the first time in his life, he made love and it wasn't with Kate. They were in the water, and yet he wasn't drowning. She was with him, and so close...and yet he could still breathe.

For the first time...he saw another path. Alex was a different road. Kate needed to be saved yes...but after that...she did dump him...after that...if she didn't want him anymore...maybe...

The heist went well. It always did when it was just them. Alex and him had worked so often together that they were used to each others ways. He liked her charm and wit and she liked his style. They fit together. They were perfect. Mozzie was the paranoia that kept them going. He was the one that kept them grounded. He was their sanity.

Alex would never leave them behind. She made sure they could escape. She just took the box with her, and once again, Neal couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe as he felt his heart get shattered. He felt his head swim. Not again. Not again.

Water was everywhere. Burke destroyed any chance he had of relaxing. Everything was ruined. Alex was gone, Kate was going to be a captive forever, and there was nothing left for him. He should just leave...he should just leave and never come back.

And then...then the world spun. The scales balanced. _Alex_ came back.

She chose him. She wanted to be with him. She knew Kate was there, she knew she had no chance if Kate wanted him back...but that didn't matter. He was who she wanted. "Stay in touch...no matter what." And he knew he would. He knew that he would. He loved her too much to disappear for good.

He said goodbye to Elizabeth. He said goodbye to June. He said goodbye to Alex and Moz...but not to Peter.

A part of him knew that Peter would find him. A part of him knew he'd be stopped. A part of him knew this...but he'd hoped that he could just get this over with. He needed to know. He needed to know if Kate was alright.

He saw her there, on the plane, and everything felt right. He felt like he could breathe. There wasn't any water. There was nothing. He could breathe. He was okay. She was okay. They had a new life.

Only Peter was there. Just like he always was. Peter would always be there, and Neal knew that by now. He knew that. So he turned and he looked at Peter, and he stared at him, and his mind reeled. He felt stunned by the fact that what he thought was breathing...was really a very subtle hyperventilating that hadn't stopped since he'd seen the plane. He was breathless...

He thought about Elizabeth. He thought about Moz, June, Alex...Jones, Cruz, Hughes, Peter...the FBI and being a consultant. He thought about Kate and what she'd given him. What she meant to him. He thought about the life he wanted. He thought about it all.

"Peter-" and his decision was made for him. Kate was killed in a fiery blast that sent him to the ground and sent his mind reeling. "No! No! Kate!" _Help me! Help me! I can't breathe! I can't breathe! The smoke! The fire! The water! Help me! Help me! _

_HELP ME!_

Time blurred. Moments faded. He vaguely felt Alex's arms around him. He was in the hospital. She told him she loved him. She told him she'd always be there. She lied. She left. She never came back.

His first night in jail was filled with claustrophobia and tears and dreams of fire and pain. In his head, Kate was burning and she wasn't going to stop. In his head, she was screaming for him. In his head, if he'd been a little bit quicker, he could have joined her and would finally feel nothing.

Two months later, he was still reeling. Peter was there though. The constant that was always grounding him. He was there and he was willing to care for him.

Mozzie was there, and he promised he wasn't leaving. He stayed on the couch like he always did. Their friendship was solid.

June adopted him once more.

The FBI let him come back.

Everything in his life had tilted and had shifted, but those things remained the same. They were the only truths that he had any longer.

Diana was there again, just like she had been in the beginning. She started off as the probie...and now she was a partner. She was valued and well loved. Her words meant the world to him.

It was the mustache that finally was the turning point though.

The photograph of Peter Burke with a mustache made him feel the weight start to lift. Diana had spoken with him and her words had held merit. He felt the pain start to lesson. He felt his lungs begin to fill. He started to be able to breathe.

He was not healed by any sense of the word, but he as starting to be able to center himself. He was starting to be able to keep himself calm. He felt relaxation drifting through him. Even though he knew that Peter was keeping things from him, even though he knew that things were going to be different...he felt as though the world was starting to spin again.

For the first time in a long while he felt like the breaks were getting glued back into place. He went home that night and he picked up the phone. He dialed a memorized number, and he listened to the line on until it was picked up.

"Hey...you told me to keep in touch."

"I did." Alex didn't sound confused or even bemused. She just agreed easily.

"How are you making out?"

"It's been hard...I've been worried about you."

"Come visit me." He flirted easily, not expecting her to agree.

"I will. I'll bring you a present."

"I like presents."

"I like you." He hesitated, his breath struggling in his throat, but he managed. He managed to get through it. He kept on breathing.

"I don't know when Alex...not now...not right now...but soon. Give me time. Give me time, and maybe...we'll see."

"I'll wait for you. Always." He nodded to no one.

His heart beat normally, his breath came in properly. A smile graced his face. He imagined her sitting on her bed with her Anastasia doll in her arms. He imagined her laughing, and he realized that perhaps it was important to move on.

Kate was gone...but Diana was right. She would have wanted him to move on.

Casper just had to keep breathing.


End file.
